


Late Night Liasons

by TheFireJuggler



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blink and Miss It John/Sherlock, Bored Sherlock Holmes, Brotherly Bonding, Happy Ending, John Just Wants Some Sleep, Late at Night, Mayhem, Mycroft wishes he wouldn't, Post Sherrinford, Secret Relationship, Sherlock Holmes Makes Deductions, brotherly shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29300019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFireJuggler/pseuds/TheFireJuggler
Summary: A bored Sherlock has severe consequences for Mycroft, especially when he chooses to delve into his brother's private affairs.Post Sherrinford
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Lady Smallwood
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Late Night Liasons

**Author's Note:**

> This came into my head the other night and I decided I'd try and right it. I've never actually written anything for Sherlock so this is a first for me, but I hope I didn't do to badly and its as fun to read as it was to write.

It was not an unusual occurrence, to be awoken in the small hours of the morning by the shrill tones of his phone ringing. A peaceful and uninterrupted sleep was not part of the job description for the British Government, and there was always some crisis to avert, no matter the hour. And that, of course, was only taking his rather vexing family into account. Don’t even get him started on the last time the PM called him at this time of night.

With a light groan, Mycroft rolled over and grabbed his phone from where it lay on his bedside table, scowling as it continued to buzz and ping in his hand. _Twenty-five new text messages. Huh. And all from Sherlock._ Wasting no time in opening them, Mycroft quickly scanned through each message, his scowl deepening as he threw back the duvet and launched himself from the comforts of his bed.

_Mycroft._

_Mycroft!_

_Come to the flat._

_Mycroft._

_NOW!!_

_MYCROFT!!!!_

In less than a minute he had ordered his driver to bring the car around. In two he was dressed, downstairs and impatiently awaiting the arrival of his driver. He found himself absentmindedly tapping his fingers against his leg, the only outward sign of any trepidation in an otherwise calm façade. _Where was that bloody…?_

The room was momentarily illuminated in a harsh light, that of car headlights pulling up outside. Once again Mycroft’s phoned buzzed to life, however this time the message was not from his brother. His car had arrived and was waiting outside.

“About time,” he muttered, grabbing his coat and umbrella from the hat stand on the way past and gliding through the front door and out into the dark chill of the night air. Without hesitating, Mycroft got into the back of the sleek black vehicle and settled himself into the leather seat. He didn’t bother speaking to his driver. He’d already had the foresight to inform him of their destination over the phone, so as not to waste valuable time later. Not that it would have come as much of a surprise to his driver. After all, there weren’t many other locations which Mycroft would require transportation to at this time of night, other than his brother’s residence or…

Mycroft shuffled in his seat, glancing down at his phone as another message came through. Sherlock. Again.

_Where are you?!_

With a sigh, he glanced out of the tinted window, quickly identifying his location and using this to estimate an arrival time at Baker Street. He tapped out a response. _4 minutes._

Leaning his head back, Mycroft closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths through his nose as he allowed his mind to consider why his younger brother had summoned him at such an hour. At first, he had wondered if perhaps Sherlock had been working on a new case, however quickly dismissed this. He knew, from keeping discreet tabs on his brother, that he had not taken on many cases in the months following their ordeal at Sherrinford. In fact, Sherlock had spent a lot more time in the company of his…

_Friends._

Mycroft clenched his hand and then stretched out his fingers, determinedly ignoring the tightening he felt within his chest.

No, as far as he was aware, Sherlock was not presently working on a new case, let alone one in which he had required assistance. In fact, Sherlock had tried to bother his brother less after Sheringford for, although neither would admit it, he knew that Mycroft had been under an enormous amount of pressure since then, from both his job and family. Not that one could tell the difference between these two things much now days.

It must have been something serious then. Perhaps something had happened, maybe to John, or his child. Maybe even their sister had managed to…but Mycroft stopped that thought before it even had a chance to fully form. His sister had retreated into herself, was virtually unreachable except to Sherlock and his violin. The threat there had been neutralised, for now, and if that ever changed then Mycroft would be the first to know. He’d made sure of that, this time.

The car slowed, gradually coming to a stop as it reached its destination. Opening his eyes, Mycroft wasted no time in opening the door, quietly informing his driver to wait for him. He wasn’t sure what waited for him in flat 221B, nor how long he would be. _No time like the present,_ he thought with grim determination as he mounted the steps which led up to the flat. His mind was working overtime, as he took in every sight, every sound, every smell, taste and feel, every little detail that surrounded him as he tried to detect any possible threats or dangers that might be lurking just beneath the surface. He wasn’t keen on being surprised.

And yet, despite his best efforts, Mycroft found himself more than mildly surprised when he entered the flat and found that everything was in order. Well, as in order as a place can be when occupied by a small child and an overgrown one. The flat had been immaculate after its reconstruction, which he had naturally arranged, and it never failed to astound him the mess which three human beings could accumulate.

“Sherlock?” He said once he was inside the sitting room, looking about himself with unabashed curiosity.

Lying on his back, in the middle of the room, was the man in question. Around him, the furniture had been pushed to the edges of the room, leaving a large space of exposed floor where Sherlock was laid. There was, however, still an armchair in this space, which he was using to prop his long, lean legs against, his toes pointing to the ceiling.

Sherlock raised his arm from where it lay beside him, bringing his hand before his face, squinting at the object which he held within it. A stopwatch, Mycroft noticed.

“Four minutes and seventeen seconds,” Sherlock informed him, pressing the button on the device with a flourish. “Deducting the seven seconds it took you to get from your car to here, that means you’re ten seconds late.”

“I hardly think ten seconds makes that much difference,” The older brother drawled lazily, now that he had ascertained that there was no immediate threat. When Sherlock made no move to get up off the floor, he asked him, “What exactly is it that you wanted, brother mine?”

Much to Mycroft’s annoyance, Sherlock chose not to reply and instead occupied himself by throwing the stopwatch into the air with one hand, and then catching it with the other. This continued for exactly twenty-two seconds, before Mycroft’s patience wore out, and he snapped, “Oh for heaven’s sake” and stomped over to where his brother, snatching the stopwatch mid-flight.

“Hey,” Sherlock shouted, finally propelling himself to his feet. He made to lunge, however Mycroft evaded this manoeuvre, deliberately holding the offending object just out of the younger man’s reach.

“Will you stop being such a child, Sherlock?” He howled, fighting off his brother’s advancing, in much the same way he had done when they were both children. Their squabble, thankfully, was cut short before it could escalate further by the appearance of a quiet disgruntled and sleep deprived John Watson.

“I thought I heard you come in,” John grumbled to Mycroft, shuffling across the floor and cradling a mug of strong coffee in his hands, its scent perforating the flat in a nauseating aroma. He seemed unfazed by the commotion which had erupted within the flat, though he supposed anyone would be after spending so much time in the whirlwind that was Sherlock’s life.

With his brother’s assault of his person halted, Mycroft took a moment to regain his composure, straightening his waist coat and smoothing down his hair, glaring at Sherlock who had moved to stand before the window overlooking the street, pulling out his phone, thumbs furiously tapping at the screen. Mycroft then turned to give John a tight lipped smile, one which was tempered by a warmth that had developed after the heartaches they had both encountered over the years. Whilst he doubted that he and the doctor would ever be friends in the sense of the word, there was at least a begrudging respect between the two men.

“Doctor Watson,” the man greeted him.

John took a swig of his coffee, wincing as he did. Perhaps the liquid was too hot, or the taste too bitter, however at the present time Mycroft could not be bothered to work out which. There were more pressing matters at hand. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m bloody relieved that you’re here.”

This earned a raised eyebrow from the elder Holmes. “Oh, and why is that?”

“Because it means I can finally get some sleep. Do you know, I don’t think I’ve actually slept in at least three days?” Mycroft doubted this statement very much. By the look of the man, the blood shot eyes and the drawn complexion, he’d say the most that the man could have been awake for was probably thirty-six hours. Before he had a chance to point this out, however, John continued on his tirade, jerking his thumb over to where Sherlock was conveniently ignoring them. “Rosie is easier to settle down than him and doesn’t fuss half as much, and she’s a baby.”

“Well perhaps then, you could tell me why I have been summoned at this hour, and what the problem actually is?”

The problem, as it turned out, was relatively simple and could be explained in as little as two words.

“Sherlock’s bored.”

“Ah.” With some trepidation, Mycroft glanced between the doctor and his brother, who was still furiously typing away on his phone. The problem may have been simple, but the solution? Not so much. “Have you not got any new cases on that…blog of yours?”

The doctor snorted. “Loads, and then some. Apparently none of them are interesting enough.”

 _Not this again._ “What about Detective Lestrade? As far as I’m aware, Scotland Yard usually has any number of cases that appear unsolvable.” And didn’t he know it. Perhaps he could have a dig around for a few classified cases, something that would pique his brother’s interest. He could always speak to Alicia, she might have a few…

“Simple, dull, boring. A child could solve them,” Sherlock announced, finally drawing his attention away from his phone, slipping the device into his breast pocket, and instead turning his gaze towards the elder Holmes, looking, really observing, like he was trying to deduce…

 _Oh, so you want to play it that way, brother mine?_ Mycroft thought, irritably, narrowing his eyes. _Well, two can play that game._ Then a thought struck him. “You’re not high are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” was the snappish response he received. This was followed by Sherlock stopping across the room towards him, and shoving his face merely inches from Mycroft’s. _Pupils normal size, eyes focused and not bloodshot, no obvious twitches or trembling. Skin clear and complexion healthy, no sign off profuse sweating or clamminess…_

“Right,” John declared, shaking his head at the silent staring contest happening before him. “I’m going to bed. Play nicely.” And without waiting for a response, he turned and left, praying that Rosie wouldn’t stir for at least another few hours.

The staring contest ended shortly after this when, much to Sherlock’s triumph, Mycroft looked away to huff and stutter a protest after John about being left to baby sit once again. There was no time to celebrate this victory, however, as after a quick glance out of the window Sherlock was on the move, grabbing his coat on the way out as he hollered over his shoulder that Mycroft should follow.

“Where are you going now?” Mycroft called, for his part following at a more unhurried pace. He didn’t receive an answer, of course, not that he had really expected to. Once he had joined his brother outside, Mycroft watched as he completely ignored the private car and its driver, in favour of a black cab which had pulled up just in front of it. This, Mycroft guessed, was what he had been doing whilst on his phone, and later found out that Sherlock in fact had an app to order taxis with.

“You know, I do have a perfectly good driver at my disposal,” he pointed out, gesturing to the car in which he had arrived.

“I don’t like your car,” Sherlock responded, simply. “The windows bother me, makes everything look dark.”

“It’s probably something to do with the fact it’s the middle of the night,” Mycroft muttered as his brother got into the taxi. With a gesture, he dismissed his driver and approached the black cab, reaching out to grab the handle only to find that the door wouldn’t open. “What on…?” He muttered impatiently, peering through the window to discover that Sherlock was holding it shut on the other side. Emitting another longsuffering huff, he rapt on the glass three times, only to be ignored as Sherlock continued to talk to the driver.

With nothing else to do, Mycroft waited, hoping that no one should happen to wake up and glance out of their windows. It might look a tad suspicious, a well-dressed man carrying an umbrella, trying unsuccessfully to get into an already engaged taxi. They would probably call the police and then he’d never live it down. If only Sherlock would hurry up and open the bloody door. Eventually, after a few more aggravated taps, his brother did open the door, and thankfully without any witnesses to see.

“Hurry up and get in. We haven’t got all night.”

For just a moment, Mycroft contemplated walking away and leaving his brother to do whatever madness he was planning without him. Further contemplation led him to the decision that it would probably better, and cheaper for the taxpayer, if he stayed and kept an eye on Sherlock, and so found himself sat in the back of the taxi, travelling through the deserted streets of London.

He tried inquiring several more times as to where they were going, and each time was greeted by the sound of silence. The one time he had tried to ask the driver, Sherlock had interrupted and informed him that he’d “find out soon enough”, shooting the poor driver a warning glare.

As they travelled, the flats and compact offices gave way to streets of houses, which continued to grow into rather large and expensive palatial abodes. With a rising sense of dread, Mycroft quickly recognised from the elegance and wealth of their surroundings that they were in the borough of Kensington. This dread did not dissipate, but rather grew as they pulled up at the gates of a very grand house, one which he was acquainted with, and its owner, very well.

He was not amused.

“Sherlock,” he hissed as the man launched out of the taxi, strutting over to the gate and quickly locating a small keypad on the wall beside it. Much to Mycroft’s annoyance, he made quick work deciphering the code and returned to the taxi as the gates shuddered open, informing them to drive on.

“Sherlock,” he tried once again. “What are you-?”

Ignoring his brother, Sherlock addressed the driver over him. “Can you wait here for us?”

The driver glanced up at the rear-view mirror, rubbing his nose in uncertainty. “The meter will still be running, mate.” His shift ended soon anyway.

“That’s fine,” the consulting detective replied, jerking his thumb at his companion. “He’ll pay.” Then, once again, he had launched himself out of the taxi and was already halfway to the front door before Mycroft could blink.

Grumbling under his breath, he grabbed his wallet and thrust a wad of fifty pound notes at the cab driver, not bothering to count them, and hurried after his brother, umbrella in hand.

“Sherlock,” he snapped in hushed tones. “Sherlock will you get back in the taxi and…no, Sherlock don’t you dare press that bell. Sherlock!”

The ring of the doorbell pierced through the night air, deafening in the slumbering silence around them, especially as Sherlock kept his finger on the button, ringing it continuously.

“Stop it,” Mycroft pulled at Sherlock’s arm, managing to disconnect his finger from the bell and silence the onslaught of chimes. He wondered if it wasn’t too late to make a dash back to the taxi, disappear before anyone was any the wiser as to who they were. It would seem like nothing more than a few kids playing a prank. But she had security cameras, he remembered. She would push the matter, want to know why they had rung her doorbell in the middle of the night and then run off.

Mycroft felt himself swallow as the door was thrown roughly open by one very angry looking woman.

Lady Smallwood, known professionally as Elizabeth and privately called Alicia by her friends, was a woman that Mycroft had come to admire over the years he had known her. By no means as mindless as many of the morons he had to suffer every day, she was a sharp and intelligent adversary, diligent and determined and, dare he say, a tad ruthless when she needed to be. It was why, as he was stood there before her icy glare, he could not help but feel a small level of trepidation as she irritably regarded one Holmes to the next. Whilst not usually one to feel daunted by any task, he had to confess that this situation was entirely new to him, and left him feeling rather on the back foot.

His only, somewhat small, consolation was that her expression appeared to soften just slightly when she regarded him. Not that this dampened her confusion one bit.

“What can I do for you?” she eventually asked, her tone surprisingly even but unmistakeably cold.

“Well,” Sherlock began, apparently undeterred by this less than warm reception. “A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss, I’m gasping.” Without giving her a chance to respond, he breezed past her and entered the rather lavish home, spinning in a circle to survey the grand hallway and stair case. Sherlock did not remain there for long, quickly disappearing off down one of the corridors, towards the kitchen if Mycroft remembered correctly.

Not that he knew if Sherlock was aware of this fact or not.

The surprised widow turned her attention to the remaining brother, hoping that he would be able to shed some light on the strange situation in which she found herself, however he was just as perplexed. All the man could offer her was an apologetic shrug, which seemed to say _“I know as much as you”._ Of course, Alicia knew that this lack of knowing no doubt vexed him greatly, and so took pity on him, gesturing that he should enter as well.

“I can only apologise for Sherlock’s behaviour,” Mycroft informed the lady, as she closed the door behind him. He carefully hung his coat and umbrella on the hat stand. “I gather he has been bored recently, and can only assume that this is his silly idea of amusement.”

Raising an elegant eyebrow, she fell into step with her colleague as they strode in the same direction which Sherlock had travelled in moments before. “I suppose I should be grateful that his boredom has not caused a national emergency…yet.” The pair shared a glance.

At that moment, the government officials rounded the corner and came to an abrupt halt, watching with unabashed curiosity as the curly haired man dashed around the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers, scrutinising their contents before moving on to the next. He even examined the fridge, sniffing and tasting various items.

“I’m not under investigation again, am I?” Alicia asked blandly, her lips quirking as she glanced at Mycroft from the corner of her eye. “Should I expect my home to be swarmed by a SWAT team any second now?”

She laughed at the scowl which formed on his face, nudging him gently in the side before turning her back on him and beginning to prepare the tea, knowing that they would probably need it to keep up with the whirlwind that was the younger Holmes.

Mycroft had considered apologising once again, something which he regrettably found himself doing more often in the days following the breach at Sherrinford, however decided as Alicia walked away from him that she had not been looking for an apology. She had been teasing him, something which the lady quite openly seemed to enjoy doing. She would not let him forget this night in a hurry, but he supposed that he should have anticipated that. You falsely arrest a person once and you never live it down, though this did not bother him so much anymore.

Affording a quick glance at his brother, to ensure he was not causing too much damage, Mycroft soon found that his eyes were inevitably drawn back to Alicia, who was busy arranging a tray for the tea as the water boiled. She worked silently, and with the same level of efficiency as though she with a highly confidential file. Whilst it would surprise other, certain individuals, that she was preparing her own refreshments for her guests, Mycroft did not fall into this category. Since the death of her husband, she had reduced the size of her household staff, opting for a quieter existence as opposed to one filled with endless callers and lavish parties, which had resulted in her not requiring the services of any live-in staff anymore.

There was, naturally, the occasional caller to keep her company, some who appeared more regularly than others, but that was a different matter altogether.

With graceful stealth, Mycroft stepped forward to relieve the lady of the full tray, returning the small smile he received as he did. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that Sherlock had stopped his energetic searching and was instead watching this interaction with keen observation. Deliberately paying him little attention, Mycroft carried the tray over to the small and ornate wooden table, with its larger twin residing in the much grander dining room, and began to pour out three cups, knowing exactly how the other occupants of the room took their tea.

Before Mycroft had even finished his task, Sherlock descended on what he knew was his cup, ignoring its matching saucer, and blew on the boiling liquid carefully, then took a long sip, savouring the flavours of the hand blended and rather decadent brew.

For a moment, a calm descended over the room as the three individuals took a moment to enjoy their drink, though this tranquillity was not destined to last. Before long, Sherlock was off again, teacup in hand, and raced off to resume his mysterious search elsewhere.

“What is it exactly that he is supposed to be looking for?” A somewhat bemused Lady Smallwood asked her companion, as they hastily followed in pursuit.

The response she got was less than enlightening. “Even I am at a loss to the reason behind Sherlock’s latest whim.”

“Have you tried asking him?”

“I had not thought of that,” Mycroft muttered sarcastically, receiving a cool glare for his efforts.

After some searching, why one person needed so many rooms Mycroft would never know, they eventually found the wayward Holmes in what had once been the family’s drawing room. This one, unlike the main one which had been used to entertain guests, had been for the Smallwood’s private use only, and was filled with personal trinkets and keepsakes, photographs and so forth that had great sentimental value, but would not be deemed expensive enough to impress any important guests.

“I love the décor in here,” Sherlock announced, gesturing to the room around him. His attention was drawn elsewhere. “Is that a Stubbs?”

Alicia blinked rapidly, her mouth hanging open slightly as she regarded the enthusiasm of the man stalking about her drawing room. She turned towards Mycroft, one question on her mind. “Is he high?”

“I am not high,” Sherlock yelled, throwing his hands in the air, causing Alicia to wince as several droplets of tea splattered onto her cream coloured carpet. “Why does every keep saying that?”

“Then what _are_ you doing?”

Sherlock turned to Lady Smallwood, a bright smile on his face and a glint in his eye which she did not entirely trust. “I’m doing what I am best at.” He pointed to a stack of crates, neatly piled in the corner of the room. “These belonged to the late Lord Smallwood.”

The crates in question, filled with objects clearly too masculine and flamboyant for the petite woman’s taste, hadn’t been there very long, packed quite recently, perhaps a day or so ago he estimated. He also deduced that she was waiting for them to be collected, perhaps to be sold. Lady Smallwood was a very organised woman, if she intended for them to be stored elsewhere in the house, then she would have had them moved the day they were packed, hence they were waiting to be taken elsewhere. As for the objects themselves, he doubted money was the reason behind their removal. Judging by the lavish surroundings, and the woman herself and the expensive clothes and beauty products that she adorned herself with, her financial situation had not reached a point where she needed to sell family heirlooms in order to pay the bills.

And he’d also snuck into her office whist she and his brother had still been in the kitchen, and found a copy of her rather healthy bank statement, so there was that too.

No, the reason behind the removal of these crates had to be something more personal. Something in her life had changed. Something like…

“Pieces of art, trinkets and such that my husband collected over the years, I was never really that keen on them,” Alicia stated, a whisper of melancholy echoing in her voice. “I thought it was about time to start going through some of these old things. I’ve been putting it off, until now.”

She looked up in surprise to find that Sherlock had come to stand before her, his face softening in what appeared to be sympathy. He understood, though, the desire to move on, to rid oneself of the memories and loss which caused nothing but pain.

The corner of her mouth lifted in a humourless smile.

“Sherlock,” his brother began, warningly. Sherlock wondered if he realised that he had moved to stand closer to the blonde haired woman, or that she in return had angled her body towards him, despite never taking her eyes from Sherlock’s. _Interesting._ “I don’t know what you’re trying to-…”

“He’s gone,” Alicia stated, shaking her head as the young man had ducked past them and back out of the door. “Doesn’t hang around much, does he?”

“This is getting ridiculous,” Mycroft muttered as he marched into the hallway, gesturing for Alicia to go first. “If he thinks that I’m going to follow him around all night, then he…”

His words died as he watched his brother place his cup on the antique sideboard, a 17th century piece, determinedly trying not to notice the vein pulsing in Alicia’s temple as they watched a single drop of tea run down the side of the cup, drawing nearer and nearer to the oak surface that it was perched on.

Sherlock, however, did not notice his hostess’ distress for he had already begun to mount the marble steps leading upstairs, pausing briefly at the top to glance left, then right, and left again before deciding that he would go in that direction .

“Is he going to my bedroom?”

Mycroft looked at Alicia, who had also turned to him, her eyes wide with horror in an expression that he was almost sure mirrored his own. His brother’s strange behaviour, his insistence at coming here of all places, of studying the place with Mycroft present, how slow had he been, not to figure out what Sherlock was up to before? “He knows.”

Without wasting another second, they both raced up the stairs, not stopping until the found him exactly where they expected him; the master bedroom.

The bedroom, much like the private drawing room, was decorated with various trinkets and photographs of children and grandchildren. The main feature, where ones eye was drawn first, was the large four-poster bed, its sheets still rumpled where Lady Smallwood had been awoken suddenly and forced from the comforts of her bed. There was also a walk-in wardrobe on the east side of the room, and beside its entrance an ornate dressing table with a large, oval shaped mirror. Various lotions and creams, bottles of make-up and perfumes were neatly arranged across its surface. There was also a fresh bloom of red roses, carefully arranged in a crystal vase, their heady scent filling the room.

Sherlock was not to be found here, but rather had made his way into the ensuite, where he was now surveying the room with the same integrity he would a crime scene. There were items in there which clearly belonged to Lady Smallwood, but there were also quite a few that clearly didn’t.

“T-they belonged to my husband,” Alicia had said. She wasn’t fooling anyone, let alone Sherlock Holmes, and she knew this perfectly well. She chalked it down to the lack of sleep caused by being so rudely awoken.

“I don’t think so,” he replied, clearly looking quite pleased with himself. The git really was enjoying this far too much. He started with the toothbrush. “There’s not dust on this one. Whilst I’m sure you keep an immaculately clean house, after not being used for some months you would expect to see at least some build-up of dust particles on the fibres. There’s also some moisture still in the bristles, though mostly at the base, suggesting that it has been used, perhaps this morning, but no earlier. It’s new, the bristles aren’t yet warn down, it was probably only purchased a few weeks ago, and clearly not used every day. Its owner then does not live here, but its presence, and in the master bathroom, does suggest that they stay quite regularly and have a rather close and intimate relationship with you.”

He then turned his attention to the razor set and shaving cream that was left on the marble surface that surrounded the sink. He picked up the razor, examining it closely. “This is also new, purchased in the last few weeks. It could have been bought to replace an older, worn out one, but taking into account what we know about the toothbrush, I’d hazard a guess that the owner has another one, at their home, but brought this one with the intention of leaving it here, meaning again we can presume that they are a frequent visitor, one who often stays overnight. As for the razor itself, the blades don’t show much sign of wear, new, but they also still have some hairs trapped between the blades.” Sherlock held the item up towards the light. “They have a reddish colour, if I’m not mistaken. Lord Smallwood had dark hair, grey as he got older, meaning that this most definitely _does not belong to your husband.”_

Dropping the razor into the sink with a clatter, Sherlock pushed past the pair, re-entering the bedroom and heading towards the bedroom.

“You know, I’d say he’s almost as good as you at this, Mycroft,” Alicia stated, with begrudging admiration. Whilst she wasn’t keen on having her personal life investigated like this, she had always been rather intrigued by the Holmes siblings’ abilities. It certainly made her job easier, to have someone who could practically read a person’s thoughts and intentions as though it were an open book.

Mycroft chose not to reply, instead watching his brother as he circled round to each side of the ornate bed, going backwards and forwards, one side to the other, before finally stopping at the opposite to which Lady Smallwood clearly slept. He paused, and then jumped onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow and inhaling deeply.

“Oh for god’s sake, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped, his patience with his brother’s childish behaviour reaching its limit. Beside him, Alicia’s brow furrowed and her mouth set into a firm line. He was going to have to apologise extensively, exhaustively, for this.

Rolling over and propping his head on his hand, Sherlock grinned openly at Mycroft. The sheets, unsurprisingly, had held the scent of Lady Smallwood’s perfume, Claire de Lune, but also had held the faint trace of one more masculine, one that Sherlock recognised all the same. “Still wear the same cologne, brother? You know, the one strong enough to choke an elephant?”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft spoke through gritted teeth.

Glancing lazily over his shoulder, Sherlock jerked his head towards the walk-in closet. “Bet if I went in there I’d find a selection of bespoke three-piece suits.”

“Yes, alright, you’ve made your point. Now get off the bloody bed,” Mycroft made to pull him out of the bed, however the younger Holmes deftly jumped to his feet before his brother could. Mycroft sighed. “How long have you known for.”

He received a shrug in response. “For about a month. I found a card in your wallet, with a personal number on it, belonging to one Lady Smallwood.”

“Why didn’t you say something at the time?”

“I was waiting to see how long it would take you to tell me. When you didn’t, I had to take matters into my own hands. Went better than I expected, actually. You were surprisingly careless.”

“I assume this was your idea of a game at your brother’s expense,” Alicia interrupted, addressing Sherlock. Her mouth was set in a firm line, and her face hardened. She looked truly…angry. Defensive even, and on behalf of Mycroft.

“Not at all,” Sherlock replied. “I just knew that my brother would need a little encouragement before admitting anything.”

“I don’t suppose I need remind you, brother mine, that…discretion is rather important in our line of work?”

Sherlock nodded. It wouldn’t do for Mycroft to lose his position, after all. Will it would be nice to know that he would have all of MI5 on his trail at any given time, it would mean that Mycroft would have more free time. Lots more free time in fact. Free time which could be filled by many more visits to the flat, and whilst Sherlock was fond of his brother, he didn’t that their relationship would do very well from spending long extended periods of time with each other. No, best leave things as they were, for the time being at least.

Turning back to Lady Smallwood, Sherlock flashed her a polite smile, which she showed no signs of returning. “Thank you for your hospitality, and the tea. We’ll be on our way now, I think we’ve kept you up long enough.”

Alicia said nothing in response, only closed her eyes briefly and inhaled deeply. Once she opened them again, she gestured towards the door, escorting them back out of the room and down the stairs, following a few steps behind the brothers, even if only to be prepared for any other surprises that might be sprung on her that night. Though she did rather hope that there wouldn’t be. She had a meeting at seven, and she daren’t look at what time it was then, knowing that she’d probably be lucky if she only got a couple more hours sleep.

In front of her, Sherlock murmured quietly to Mycroft, making sure to keep his voice low to ensure that their conversation would not be heard. He chuckled with amusement. “You’ve got a girlfriend.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

“A goldfish.”

“She is not a goldfish,” he snarled, glaring irritably at his younger brother, who smirked knowingly back at him. After all, how many times had he called Sherlock’s companions goldfishes? He now realised that perhaps he had been wrong to assume that, both in regards to his brother’s relationships and his own.

There a pause before the consulting detective spoke again. “I am happy for you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft let out a snort. “You have a very funny way of showing it.”

“I’m glad that you’ve found someone, that you’re not lonely anymore.”

“I was never lonely to start with, Sherlock.”

“Yes,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes. “And I suppose you still think that there is no advantage to caring.”

“Not at all, brother mine,” Mycroft replied. Despite this, Sherlock saw the way that the elder Holmes’ eyes softened as he glanced across at Alicia Smallwood, who had slipped past them to unlock the door. He smiled triumphantly to himself.

“And I’m sure our parents will be equally pleased with the news.”

The wistful expression was soon replaced by one of horror, as he turned to look at his little brother. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Grinning even more broadly, Sherlock ducked out of the front door and disappeared into the night, or rather into the taxi which was still waiting impatiently outside, accompanied by the sounds of his brother shouting after him.

Growling under his breath, Mycroft made to follow him, pausing to pick up his coat and umbrella and bid a farewell to the lady whose night they had interrupted. “I must apologise again for the disturbance we have caused. I assure you that in the morning, I shall be sending Sherlock a list of cases which will keep him occupied for the next decade and beyond.”

Stepping closer to him, Alicia smirked mischievously, in a way that he had found rather endearing over the past few months. He’d also learnt that this look knew usually meant trouble. “You know, you’re more than welcome to come and disturb me anytime you like, though perhaps next time you could leave your brother at home?”

Responding with a smirk of his own, Mycroft leant forward, and…was the sound of a car door? And an engine starting? And was that…? Quickly pulling back, much to Alicia’s frustration, Mycroft swung the door open, and stepped out into the darkness, just in time to see the rear lights of the taxi disappear around the corner. Stopping back into the house, he turned to look at his companion.

“Sherlock’s left me,” he whined.

Chuckling softly, Alicia placed her hand on his shoulder, drawing herself up to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’m going to bed,” she informed him.

“Well what am I supposed to do?”

“Well you could always ring for your driver to come and pick you up,” Alicia replied, barely able to restrain her laughter at his dumbfounded expression. “Or, failing that you’re more than welcome to stay the night.” She smiled up at him. “It’s up to you, only, whatever you decide would you mind locking up for me?”

Turning on her heal she wandered up the stairs, keeping her steps slow and even to drag out the process for as long as possible. She had reached about halfway, when she heard the door softly closing and the locks being slid into place. Sneaking a peek over her shoulder, she caught Mycroft shrugging off his coat and hanging it and his umbrella up on the stand once more. Alicia fully turned to face him as he approached, watching as he paused at the foot of the staircase.

“It wouldn’t be fair to disturb my driver twice in one night,” he told her, as though he needed an excuse.

A bright smile enveloped her face as she held her hands out to him.

* * *

“Well, how did it go?”

Sherlock looked up in surprise as he entered the flat to find that John was still up and apparently waiting for him, cradling a sleeping Rosie in his arms.

“She was restless,” he said by a way of explanation when he noticed the dark haired man’s eyes come to rest on the slumbering child. “Well? Did you get Mycroft to admit that he had a girlfriend?”

“He couldn’t really deny it in the end,” Sherlock replied, moving to sit in his chair, which was facing John. “You know he even keeps a razor there?”

John snorted. “Bloody hell, must be serious then.” He paused. “Imagine Mycroft getting himself a girlfriend.”

There was a moment of silence as each man contemplated this, before their eyes met and they burst out laughing.

“It’s weird.”

“So weird,” Sherlock agreed.

“I never really imagined Mycroft being the sort of bloke to settle down and keep a razor at someone’s house.” John said, lowering his voice and rocking his arms as his daughter had started to stir at the sudden commotion.

“I’m glad he has,” Sherlock declared softly. “It will do him good, to have someone, I know it has me.”

John smiled across at Sherlock, gingerly getting out of his chair so as not to wake Rosie. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

A calm descended over 221B Baker Street for the first time in days, as the two men rested more peacefully than they had in months. One last thought entered Sherlock’s mind before he had drifted of that night.

His brother had been wrong. There really was an advantage to caring.


End file.
